


Security

by LJMouse



Series: Gifts & Prompts [2]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Schmoop, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, dratchet - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-14 08:29:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9170941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LJMouse/pseuds/LJMouse
Summary: From a prompt by Kuukkeli on Tumblr.Ratchet and Drift spend a lazy morning together on the shuttle, while returning to the Lost Light crew.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kuukkeli](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kuukkeli/gifts).



> Find me on tumblr at: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/ljmouse. (I'm taking requests!) 
> 
> This is from a prompt on Tumblr from Kuukkeli. She wanted Ratchet and Drift to spend a lazy morning together. The story went a bit sideways from that, because I find Drift fascinating -- at his core, he's probably an addictive personality who, if not addicted to substances, is addicted to ideology and people. This is a bit of a character study.
> 
> In my headcanon for this story, Ratchet is well aware of this. He knows Drift will always be a bit damaged ... but so is Ratchet, and so is literally every other Cybertronian left alive. Ratchet loves him as he is, even as he worries about his future. 
> 
> Ratchet can't fix him entirely, and doesn't expect to, but he's trying to get him into a better head space before they get back to the ship and Drift has to deal with both Rodimus AND Megatron.

Drift, recharging, seemed younger and far more innocent.

Ratchet held the warrior close, and studied his features with affection. In recharge, Drift was relaxed. All of the anxiety in his spark, and the demons which drove him from one obsession to the next, had melted away. He slept, optics dark, systems humming comfortably, field quiet and calm.

Ratchet watched, and thought that he understood Drift better than he Drift would ever know. Some of it was personal experience. Some of it was from a few chats with Rung; they'd never been able to get Drift into a session with Rung, but Rung had made a point of observing the mech. When he'd heard Ratchet was going to rescue him, he'd pulled Ratchet aside and they'd had a quick professional consultation about Drift's mental health. 

Aaaaand, given the events of the last few days, that would be the last time he could "professionally" consult with Rung about Drift, because he now had a huge conflict of interest and he would need to pass Drift's care on to one of the other medics. However, he had also resolved that Drift  _would_ be spending some sessions with Rung, as soon as he could figure out a way to get the warrior to attend. 

Ratchet knew -- and Rung agreed emphatically -- that Drift, at his core, was deeply insecure. He hid a lack of self esteem behind an excessive obsession with spiritual woo-woo. Also, with some justification given his history, he deeply feared rejection. He'd been that way his whole life; Ratchet suspected that the first seeds of that mentality had been laid when he was very small.

Drift was a forged mechanism, but he wasn't fast enough to be a racer, smart enough to be a scientist, big enough to be a laborer, or -- back in those days of monstrous war builds being the norm for the military -- considered powerful enough to be a soldier. By the same token, he was too big for many jobs where fuel efficiency was prized over size. He had no outlying spark gifts. His manual dexterity was in the average range. He wasn't pretty enough to be a courtesan, or coordinated enough to be a dancer, or socially astute enough to overcome any of these apparent flaws with charm and charisma. 

He had, in short, no special attributes to set him apart, and so the functionalists had found no role for him in society.

Ratchet found it ironic that tiny little _Tailgate_ had found work as a waste disposal mech, because he was small and agile and able to fit into tiny alleys and tunnels. Drift, with a speedster's frame, burned too much energon for his size to be desirable as a working mech ... but he hadn't been talented enough on the tracks. Ratchet had found out that Drift had, in fact, raced a few times. He'd never come in better than tenth in a pack of twenty in a weekday night race at an amateur track. He was faster than some, but not good enough to find a sponsor. 

The bottom line was that Drift had been rejected 'just not good enough' from the day he had been onlined. 

Because of this, he had been unable to find work. Finding himself unwanted by society, friendless from the day he onlined, he had first found an escape from the pain and loneliness in drugs and prostitution on the streets. The drugs had given him an escape from reality and selling himself in back alleys had been the only way he could support himself and his habit. Perhaps, Ratchet thought, he'd also found a kind of false approval in the arms of his tricks.

Ratchet put an arm around Drift's slumbering frame, and rested a head against his shoulder, and listened to his systems hum as Drift slowly cycled towards waking.

Later, Ratchet knew that Drift had been a true believer in the Decepticon cause. In truth, he'd been fanatic, to the point of exceeding the bounds of his orders. That, too, had been about belonging and acceptance and  _proving himself_ to Megatron, whom Drift had worshipped. (Ratchet, aware of just who had recently joined the 'Light crew, wondered what Drift would make of Megatron now, and vice versa. Maybe he'd better be there for that first meeting.)

Drift, certainly, had believed in the Decepticon ideals. How could he not? Given his history of deprivation and unjust denial of his basic rights as a sentient being, those ideals had certainly sounded right to the young mech. However, the degree to which he'd devoted himself to Megatron, and to the cause, spoke of a deeper need to belong.

Megatron had been the first person to tell Drift that he could be more than just a street rat. Megatron and told him that he could be important, that he could make a difference to the Cause, that he was valued and skilled. Drift had reacted with fanatical loyalty that had been unshakable for a very, very long time. For Drift, approval from an authority figure could be irresistible.

In the end, however, the Decepticons had rejected him.

Ratchet pressed a kiss to Drift's helm. Drift was waking, slowly, leisurely. Here, on the shuttle, in the vast expanse between systems, there was no threat. All their chores had been done the night before, and there was absolutely nothing pressing to do this morning. They'd worn each other out the night before. Ratchet's valve was just a tiny bit sore, actually; they'd had _fun_. 

Drift, therefore,  was relaxed and unhurried as his systems came online.

Ratchet propped himself up on one elbow and watched as Drift's biolights brightened and his optics flickered.

On Theophany, from what Drift had said to Ratchet, he'd been soundly rejected as a Decepticon by most of the residents, even though they claimed to believe in the equality of all mechanisms.

Ratchet would have told the whole holier-than-thou lot of them exactly where they could stuff their beliefs and their fancy swords. Ratchet had his own set of beliefs, and they included, _Thou shalt not be a_ _hypocrite._

Drift, rather than telling them to go frag themselves with some over-sized knives, had instead chosen to changel himself to fit in ... and when given a choice between betraying Megatron or the Knights, he'd chosen Megatron. Ratchet couldn't fault him for that choice, because Megatron, but it had only taken Drift a few weeks to completely change his priority tree when it came to his loyalties.

Ratchet had a pretty good idea that a lot of Drift's drive to change had come down to first "wanting to impress Wing" then "wanting to be accepted by this new group of people who are pretty cool." Oh, his belief in the knights was certainly a change for the better, but Ratchet couldn't help but note the extreme degree that Drift had also changed himself. He'd gone from being known as a killer (and claiming that killing was his Primus-given talent) to devoting himself to saving lives and playing the hero with rabid enthusiasm and very little regard for his own safety.

On the ' _Light_ , Drift had subsumed himself in trying to belong. He'd written Rodimus's speeches, he'd thrown himself into every fight, he'd tried his hardest to fit in. Rodimus, the charismatic young mech that he was, had become the focus of Drift's need for acceptance. If Rodimus approved of him, all was right with Drift's world.

Ratchet tightened his arm around Drift, and lifted a leg over Drift's knees. He felt a fierce desire to hold him close. Ratchet recognized Drift's flaws, but there was so much more to the mech. There was so much that made Ratchet like Drift. Drift, he thought, was conjunx material, flaws and all. He was, at spark, a  _good_ mech. 

Despite Drift's loyalty, Rodimus had betrayed Drift, and Ratchet wasn't sure he could ever forgive the young captain. He hadn't had much faith in Rodimus to begin with, but now he didn't even _like_ him. Drift had deserved so much more. He was a loyal friend, and a good mech, and Roddy had _hurt_ him.

Worse, Ratchet could already predict what was going to happen when Drift returned to the 'Light. Rodimus would apologize, maybe profusely, and the words might even sound right. Drift's loyalty was all sorts of appealing to the narcissistic little slagger, so Roddy would want him back, just because it made Rodimus feel good to have Drift following around after him like a puppy. Rodimus might call that friendship but Ratchet mentally labeled their relationship 'dysfunctional.' However, it was Drift's choice to make.

Drift, Ratchet knew without a doubt, would accept his apology, and go right back to being Roddy's friend, because his desire for approval and belonging was just that powerful.

Ratchet squeezed Drift tighter as the mech finally roused to full consciousness. "Hey," he said, when Drift lit his optics and looked at him.

"Mmm." Drift rolled over and pressed closer to Ratchet. "I could get used to waking up this way."

"Drift," Ratchet said, very seriously, "I'm going to be here for the long term. We're going to wake up in bed together, all the time."

Drift blinked at him. "Where'd that come from?"

"Just ... thinking about things." Ratchet pressed a kiss to Drift's helm.

"Hnnh." Drift ran a hand down Ratchet's side, fingers sliding under his armor to tweak sensors and stroke wires. It hadn't taken Drift long to figure out how to arouse Ratchet in a hurry, and Ratchet reacted with a growl of his engine before he even realized he was aroused.

Drift smirked. "Spike me, Ratchet."

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes."

"No, and I'm being serious." Ratchet hiked his leg up higher up Drift's side, blatantly exposing his valve panel. "Drift, I want you to spike me."

Drift propped himself up on one elbow, though he didn't exactly pull away. "What brought this on? I thought you liked spiking."

"I like it all." Ratchet kept his voice casual. "Just want to switch things up a bit."

"I ..." Drift hesitated, and Ratchet knew exactly what was going through his spark. Drift might be registering his hesitance to spike Ratchet as mere anxiety, with no actual logical reasons attached, but his emotional reaction felt very real.

Drift, Ratchet had learned, normally used his spike when he dallied with others. He was _never_ the bottom. That even included trysts with Wing and with Rodimus. For Drift, allowing Ratchet to spike him was a gesture of trust, and of acceptance. It was Drift letting himself go, and allowing himself to be vulnerable, and he only felt secure enough with Ratchet to do that. 

It was also, Ratchet thought, about submission and that need for approval. Drift, deep down, was trying to please Ratchet any way he could. He trusted Ratchet more than he'd trusted anyone in his life, but on a deeper level, he was very insecure. This wasn't at all healthy.

"I want this," Ratchet said, triggering his valve panel to open. "I want you to spike me."

Drift let out a long, slow, ventilation and then rolled over onto the top of Ratchet and kissed him. Though Drift was a little shorter than Ratchet, they were close enough in height that this was not awkward.

Then, as he gathered his courage, the warrior's field settled into something resembling determination. His hands were suddenly everywhere on Ratchet's frame as he teased and stroked and touched every sensitive spot that Ratchet had. He had, apparently, resolved to do a good job at spiking Ratchet, if that was what Ratchet truly wanted.

Drift's weight was comfortable, and Ratchet loved the sudden assertiveness in Drift's approach. He let his field unfurl, welcoming Drift's attention, and clutched Drift's aft to encourage him to move things forward.

"Hard," he said, when Drift entered him. "I'm not going to break."

Drift responded with a strong thrust, and a surge of his field.

"Harder!"

Aggressive, now, Drift growled low and rolled his hips and thrust deep into Ratchet's valve. He reached down, and caught Ratchet's knees and pulled them up to change the angle. Deeper, harder, hotter, and then they both toppled over into the abyss.

"Mmm." Ratchet said, when he'd regained coherency. "We'll have to do that again. Lots of times."

Drift, however, had withdrawn into himself. His field was tight, and his hands clenched rather than stroked at Ratchet's armor. Suddenly, he pressed a kiss to Ratchet's chevron and started to get up.

"Where are you going?" Ratchet asked, catching his wrist in a light hold. Drift could break free if he wanted to, but the simple touch stopped Drift cold.

"I ... there's stuff to do. The air scrubber filters need changing, and I want to go over the communication logs, and we should do a test of the defense system, and ..." he stammered. His field was now a chaotic mess.

"We changed the air filters yesterday, the comm logs will wait, and the guns are fine. I checked them myself a day before I found you." Ratchet smiled at Drift, reassuringly. "There's nowhere we need to be or do, and we're days away from our next stop."

Drift slowly lay back down, and awkwardly put an arm around Ratchet. Ratchet, pleased, immediately snuggled into his arms. "There. That's better."

Drift said nothing.

Ratchet rolled over, and pressed a kiss to Drift's helm, then stroked a hand down his arm. He kept up a steady, gentle rhythm, soothing and comforting. Slowly, slowly, the worry lessened from Drift's field.

They truly had nothing else to do, and an abundance of time.

"We'll be back with the crew in a few days," Ratchet said, after a bit. "Will you share a hab-suite with me when we get there?"

Drift jerked his head up, and gave him a surprised look.

"I want more mornings like this," Ratchet said. "And nights. And middle-of-the-afternoons. But it isn't just about the 'facing, Drit. I want to share my life with you. I like who you are, and I enjoy the time I spend with you, and I hope you feel the same way about me."

"Thought I was annoying," Drift said, into Ratchet's shoulder, but Ratchet thought he was smiling.

"You are." Ratchet said, and poked him in the chest with a finger in a spot he knew was ticklish. Drift flinched, and Ratchet poked him again, but then turned the teasing into a gentle caress before it could get out of hand. "And I'm sure there's days when you think I'm insufferable. That's okay, though. If we're pissing each other off, it doesn't mean we don't love each other. It just means it's time for us to go spend some time with other people."

Drift did not say anything, but Ratchet could tell he was mulling that over.

"And then when we're over being cranky at each other, we'll still be in love, but we'll have more friends for the time spent apart."

Drift let out a long, slow, sigh. He was thinking about what Ratchet said, but Ratchet knew that it would take a very long time for him to truly believe that Ratchet loved him unconditionally. Still, he knew they'd taken a small step in the right direction when Drift slowly relaxed into his embrace.

Ratchet held him for the rest of the morning. Drift pressed close and kept his optics off and one audial sensor pressed to Ratchet's spark. He didn't move. He didn't talk about his thoughts. Occasionally, he might have drifted into a light doze, for his systems would slow and then cycle back up again.

Ratchet let him lie there, and contented himself with stroking Drift's battered armor or holding him tight. He had nowhere to go, plenty of time, and Drift needed this.

 

 


End file.
